e an early opportunity of introducing him to you.

"My real name is _not_ what you have hitherto considered it to be. I
changed it when, on the supposed death of my son, I retired from my
usual place of residence to a distant part of the kingdom, to avoid the
importunities of some worthless relations; but, until I have the honour
of disclosing to you in person my real name, I beg to subscribe myself,
Madam, yours very truly,

"J. B. NEWTON.

"_To Miss Ellen Arundel._"

When this most extraordinary epistle was read, Ellen turned deadly pale,
and would certainly have fallen to the ground, had not a young man
entered through the window which opened out on the lawn, and caught her
in his arms. He was followed by Mr Newton.

"Ellen," exclaimed the latter, "behold my son!"

The sorrowing girl cast her eyes upon the form of him who held her.

"Meredith!" she cried, and threw herself, weeping, upon his shoulder.
Her tears were tears of joy. Little more remains to tell. Ellen Arundel
gave her hand to the son on the very day which had been appointed for
her nuptials with the father.

CHATELARD.

Some time after the unfortunate Queen Mary had established her court at
Holyrood, on her return from France, to ascend the throne of her
ancestors, a stranger arrived at a certain tavern or hostelry, kept by
one Goodal, at the foot of the Canongate of Edinburgh. The former had
last come from Leith, where he had been landed from a French vessel some
two or three hours previously. He was a young man, probably about three
or four and twenty, tall and handsome in person, of a singularly
pleasing countenance, and of mild and exceedingly gentleman-like
demeanour. His lofty forehead and expressive eye bespoke the presence of
genius, or, at least, of an intellect of a very high order; while his
general manners indicated a refined and cultivated mind. There was
marked, however, on the brow of the interesting stranger very palpable
traces of saddening thoughts--his whole countenance, indeed, exhibiting
the characteristics of a deep and rooted melancholy; but it was of a
gentle kind, and bore no likeness to the stern gloominess of
disappointed ambition. His sadness was evidently a sadness of the
heart--the result of some grievous pressure on its best and tenderest
feelings and affections.

After having partaken of some refreshment, the stranger desired a small
measure of wine to be brought him. This order was executed by mine hos